


you know the night is gone

by driedvoices



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 08:01:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/driedvoices/pseuds/driedvoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What makes you better?</p>
            </blockquote>





	you know the night is gone

And he shakes like a child (because he _is_ a child) when he looks on the battlefield that first time. The worst of it has been over for a long time, even if it doesn't feel that way, but there's no way to measure the swelling, lung-crushing ache etched on Ed's face. "We did this," he whispers, fists clenching inside his gloves as his gaze shifts over the triumphant scene, lingering a bit too long on the bodies not yet cleared out and the grass stained redredred. He turns to Mustang for confirmation, eyes wide and solemn. 

_You didn't_ , he thinks, but he doesn't say it. Instead: "It had to be done." It's an easy lie, because it's one he half-believes.

There's the slight sound of metal grating over metal. It's not nearly as unpleasant as it should be. "You're wrong," Ed says bluntly, pressing the heel of his hand against his eye. "The military is supposed to keep the peace, that's what we're _here for_."

Havoc, standing a few feet away, gives a little snort of laughter, but Ed rips his hand from his face and shoots him a glare that leaves the noise caught in his throat. Havoc directs a salute at Mustang and walks away. Roy has the feeling he should follow suit, but Ed still isn't moving, frozen except for his trembling. He clears his throat. 

"We're _here_ ," he says, purposefully not looking at Ed, "because we all had some disillusioned idea of what this would be like." He can feel, literally _feel_ those damn yellow cat eyes on him, burning miniscule holes into his uniform. "We're not peacemakers. We're tools. Weapons. Whichever you prefer."

"I'm not." Ed's voice rings loud, overconfident, and both of them know he's convincing himself more than anyone.

"What makes you better?" Roy murmurs, and shakes his head as he walks away, the sound of Ed's clapping hands echoing over the blood-tinged horizon. 

-

Al tells him to be nicer. More respectful. Al is always respectful. Ed thinks this is probably because he's a gigantic suit of armor, and not a five-foot-mumblemumble kid working for the government. Alphonse doesn't seem to note the difference. 

Like the difference between when Hawkeye walks into Mustang's office unannounced and when Ed storms in and sprawls out on the sofa. How she gets an amusedly raised eyebrow and he gets a reprimand and a harsh glare that ghosts over Ed in a way that makes him squirm. Like how when Havoc sucks on a cigarette calls him 'kid,' everyone chuckles and Colonel Fuckface always laughs the loudest, black hole eyes gleaming of a challenge. 

So Ed tries, really; it's just that there's only so many internal hold-your-tongue's and grit-your-teeth-and- bear-it's that he can take, and by the eighth short joke of the day, he has really had enough. _Really_.

"Fullmetal—" Mustang starts, but Ed's not going to let him get that far, has him by the throat with one hand and the automail arm is pulled back and sharpened to a point. Mustang says nothing, doesn't even flinch, just jerks his head and it draws Ed's attention to his wrist, and above that his fingers, long and still with the middle and thumb pressed together-- _one little slip, that's all it would take_.

He's not at all doubtful that Colonel Bastard would do it, even if he'd get burnt, too. He's obviously insane, anyway. The way he doesn't try to pull out of Ed's grip at all, almost relaxes into it. His eyes are dark like tar and deep and rich and they don't leave Ed's for a second. Impasse hits them but neither of them retaliates; the world can do its damnedest to try and coerce them back into its metric flow but it's not working. They might be stones sitting there, that time doesn't dare touch out of fear and frustration. The air is ripe with chemicals that sink in through the windows, the ventilation. Ed is painfully aware of everything in this tiny, tiny space that contains him and Mustang and the complexities that arise when irrational anger is mixed with alchemical genius. 

Someone yells outside, a dog barks, maybe. It's enough to break Ed's attention for a moment, and he looks away. He snaps his head back quickly-- _stupid, don't ever let your guard down_ \--but the room isn't engulfed in flames, Colonel Asshole isn't laughing down at him maniacally. This doesn't add up. Instead, he's shrugging (he's trying to shrug, Ed notes with pleasure that it seems to be both difficult and painful when you're pushed against a wall by somebody half your age), as if to say _what did you expect?_

Ed gives him one last look of pure loathing, before he turns to go, before he draws his hand away from Mustang's neck. Mustang's grip is firm on his wrist when he tugs Ed back. Ed's not expecting it and he stumbles, crashes into Mustang. They're pressed together from knee to chest, and Ed can feel Mustang's heavy breathing like it was his own. He shoves roughly at the blue military jacket, at the hard stomach and shoulders underneath it, but he finds no leverage. Old man's tougher than he looks. That's okay; Ed is, too. 

He breathes deep and tilts his head up, locks eyes with Mustang. Their faces are shamefully close, they're literally breathing the same fucking air, and something in Mustang's face changes; less cocky, less conceited, almost a little bit worried. 

Ed sees his opportunity and runs with it. His free hand connects with Mustang's cheek with a satisfying crack. It's all the escape he needs, but he doesn't run out the door. He takes a few steps back to admire his work, but instead of feeling smug, he just feels kind of nauseous, because how can a person be crumpled on the floor, nursing a jaw and still look so goddamned superior? Mustang stares at Ed's staring, eyes all malice and a purple bruise blooming on his face. 

"You're disgusting," Ed says, and lets the door slam behind him.

-

"You smell like liquor," Maes says by way of greeting, and he sits next to Roy on the steps. Havoc lingers somewhere behind him, struggling with a book of matches. 

"It's only nine in the morning," he replies. Maes snorts but Roy doesn't push the subject, deliberately closing off any route to casual chatter his friend might've taken. Maes shakes his head, then reaches into his pocket. 

"Did I tell you about Elysia's new—"

"You showed me yesterday," Roy says. Maes curls his fingers a little tighter around the photograph. Havoc swears in the background. A match drops on the pavement, and for a pained moment, it's the only sound to thud in the air. 

"Why do you _do_ this?" Maes asks, keeping his voice at a reasonable level. "You tell the kid that we're dirt, that we're only good for following orders, and you go and act like this—" his hand gestures wildly at the empty space surrounding Roy, "like you regret it. Like you regret everything you've worked for. So what's your angle, huh? Do all you State Alchemists have a deep sense of self-loathing ingrained in you at a young age?" Roy says nothing. Maes wipes his glasses on his coat. "You're just as clueless as he is, aren't you?"

"I don't know what else to tell him." His lips are pressed in a thin line but the sound escapes anyway. 

"And it's easier to lie." It's not a question, not even close. "You are going to have one hell of a time leading a country."

"Corruption in the government's nothing new. Nostalgia could be a good selling point."

Maes smiles at the cheap humor, because it means that Roy's trying, at least. He looks at him hard, more concerned about the bruise-colored shadows under his eyes than the bruise on the side of his face.

"He's not a kid," Roy says, eyes on the ground. 

Maes chuckles. "No," he says, "Ed is definitely the adult here," and then he full out laughs, because Roy snaps around with a loud "God _damn_ it, Havoc," and snaps his fingers more forcefully than necessary. Havoc's eyebrows might come off a bit singed, but damn if his cigarette isn't lit. 

-

He wasn't going to turn his report in tonight—would rather have walked on hot coals, really, but then Hawkeye had caught him with the single most terrifying look he'd ever seen (it consoled him a little thinking that Mustang had probably gotten worse from her). 

"It's late," he says in protest, "he's probably already gone home."

"He hasn't," Hughes says, stopping on his way out the door. "Tell him I said he works too damn much." Ed grumbles something nondescript in response, and attempts to follow him. Hawkeye catches him by the collar. 

"Go," she says, and it's really irrational that a pretty woman should be able to look that _scary_ , "now."

He stares up at her in contempt, and he swears a little smirk crosses her face. 

He doesn't knock; storms in like he's got a purpose (technically, he does) and scowls as deeply as he knows how. Mustang pauses in shrugging his coat on to look at him. Ed all but throws the stack of papers at him, noting with pleasure that the shadow of a bruise still lingers along his jaw.

"You're late," the colonel says, and tosses Ed's report onto his desk.

"Missed my train," Ed says passively. "What, you're not even going to read it?"

"Off the clock," Roy says, and shrugs. He bumps Ed's shoulder as he heads out. Ed doesn't turn when he speaks, and Mustang stops walking to ask, "What was that?"

"I said," Ed repeats crossly, "Did you mean it? What you said that day, about—"

"About you being a dog of the military?" There's an edge to his voice that Ed can't identify. "Why would I say something I didn't mean, Fullmetal?"

"Because you're an idiot. And a bastard. And you hate the idea just as much as I do, and you're so pathetic that you resign yourself to believing it." Ed resists the urge to tick off the reasons on his fingers. 

Mustang stiffens. "Then perhaps I should have asked you why you question what you already know to be true."

"Yeah, well. Doesn't change the fact that you're pathetic."

"I'm so glad you deign to talk to someone as lowly as myself," Mustang says drily, "though I'm sure I can't imagine what I could have done to offend your _very lax morals_." And he knows the outcome before the words even leave his mouth, knows that in seconds he'll have fresh bruise to match the other and he almost insults his height for good measure, but Ed stops himself, clenches his fists and mutters very quietly, " _Damn_."

For a moment, Roy is truly afraid he has struck a nerve that can't be repaired, driven the knife in a little too deep. Then Ed walks swiftly to the window and draws the curtains, and there is the strange and mostly unpleasant sensation of teeth at his lower lip, and Roy is hit ( _pummeled_ , more like) with the realization that Ed is kissing him. 

Well. 

Ed pushes him down roughly—because really, why else would he have a goddamned sofa in his office? He settles himself on top of Mustang's hips and smacks his interfering hands away, trying not to think about who's underneath him. This is chemistry, biology—it's _science_ , and therefore control. He grinds down hard, and it's enough to illicit a moan from that smug mouth, and Ed bites down on his own lip, determined to maintain as much dignity as humanly possible. 

Mustang keeps trying to touch him, to grab his waist, his shoulders, his hair. Ed makes a disapproving noise that his superior is too dense to comprehend, and out of frustration, he's forced to grab Roy's wrists and pin them above his head. It kind of makes Ed sick how easily accepts it, how he thrusts up to meet Ed's hips even harder, as if to compensate. 

It's weird, Ed decides, to have another body against you like this. He's mostly playing this by ear and by urge and by things he's accidentally read, but he wasn't expecting the hardness, the solidity of someone under him, the way there was something like nausea that stirred in him every time his brain ran over the bleak fact: _this is Colonel Mustang_. And he's not entirely sure, but he doesn't think that he's supposed to feel this fucking angry about it, that the sight of someone was supposed to make your stomach churn in more ways than one.

Mustang wriggles a wrist free ( _slimy bastard_ , Ed pants, but Roy pays him no mind) and palms the front of Ed's pants. Ed hisses and draws back but Roy presses on, working the zippers down and wrapping a deft hand around him. 

(Ed shivers when he comes, eyes shut tightly and fingers curled in the fabric of the couch. His face is flushed and his hair sticks to his forehead and _god, the sight of him_.)

When Roy opens his eyes, Ed jumps up like he's been burned. His hands run over his clothes, quickly righting himself while Mustang lies in the mess he left, front of his trousers embarrassingly damp. 

"You're probably right," he says softly, "We are all just tools. But there's one thing that gets me through, and it's that I'm not dumb enough to accept it. I'll never be as bad as you." Ed looks over his shoulder, grabbing his coat from where it had fallen on the floor. "Hughes says to tell you not to work so hard." 

And then he's gone. 

-

The lights go down in the East. Roy stays up, not quite dreaming.


End file.
